Christmas Cheer (At Least It's Only Once a Year)
by Carlier36
Summary: Miles could never quite get into the Christmas spirit, no matter how hard he tried. A series of Christmas-themed ficlets for the nbc revolution "25 Prompts in 25 Days"


Disclaimer: I do not own Revolution nor am I associated with any of its cast or crew.

A/N: Written for nbc_revolution's "25 Prompts in 25 Days." Each section is for a different prompt and is 300 words or less.

**Christmas Cheer (At Least It's Only Once A Year)**

**Please Have Snow and Mistletoe**

Seven Years Before the Blackout

"Matheson and Monroe!" Miles lifted his head in drowsy surprise, not only at the fact that they had a care package but that it had come for both of them. He squinted across the table, poking his fork at the unidentifiable mush on his plate, but Bass had already leapt up to retrieve their present. Two days before Christmas and the only indication was a small, craggy tree propped up in the corner, everything around them an endless variety of tan, beige and sand. No flocked evergreens here. Not even streetlights to blink red and green.

Bass plopped down, a beat-up cardboard box clutched in both hands. "It's from Chicago," he announced, tearing into it with his knife. "From Ben, I guess."

"No way." Miles shoveled more mush into his mouth, talking around his food. "He's never even sure which 'stan' we're in."

Reaching into the box, Bass pulled out a shoebox with a cheerfully wrapped lid, all bedecked in bows and glitter. It looked garishly and welcomingly out of place in Ass Backwards, Sand-istan. He chucked the card at Miles, tearing into what looked like lopsided gingerbread men and an attempt at rum balls.

Sliding his finger under the envelope flap, Miles pulled out a card with a smiling snowman on the front and flipped it open.

_Hope this finds you both safe and in time for Christmas. Miss you terribly. Love, Rachel_

"It's from Rachel," Miles mumbled, rubbing his thumb over her hastily-signed name. Not Ben. Rachel.

Bass was already spitting out a bite of gingerbread, nose wrinkled. "Jesus. Your sister-in-law can't bake for shit."

The barest hint of a smile tugged at his mouth and Miles snatched up a rock-hard rum ball, hurling it at Bass' head. "She's got other talents."

"Gross, man. Keep it to yourself."

**Silver and Gold Decorations on Every Christmas Tree**

One Year After the Blackout

The sun was just peeking over the edge of the hills, snow sparkling merrily. Miles, though, seemed unaffected by the natural beauty, feet wide apart, arms crossed, scowling at what appeared to be a _Christmas tree. _A Charlie Brown tree if he ever saw one, it's scraggly branches weredecked out in mostly shriveled apples and some walnut shells. It _might _have been Christmas Day, they had lost count of the calendar a month or two before, but that didn't give the world carte blanche to grow (poorly) decorated Christmas trees overnight.

There was a shuffling and groaning behind him and he turned to glare at Bass and Jeremy. "Which one of you idiots did this?"

Jeremy lay in his sleeping bag, free arm thrown over his eyes as he wadded up a slushy snowball with one hand and chucked it in Miles' general direction.

"Did what?" Bass demanded, cracking one eye open, voice scratchy with sleep and freezing temperatures.

Miles made a wild gesture at the tree, looking terribly offended. "Tree! One of you," he paused to jab a finger at them both, "is trying to de-humbug me."

"Not that invested, really," Jeremy croaked, rolling over and burying his head in the damp, snowy jacket-turned-pillow.

Bass pushed himself up in his bedroll, shaking snow out of his curls. "Maybe it was the woodland creatures."

"Yeah, magical squirrels decorated the tree." Jeremy's voice was muffled in his makeshift pillow but Miles' scowl deepened anyway.

"I'm going to figure out which of you it was. Don't think I won't."

Bass rolled his eyes, kicking at the remnants of the night's fire and tossing some fresh, though wet, pine needles on it. "Merry Christmas to you too, dumbass."

**I'll Hold Your Hands, They're Just Like Ice**

Seven Years After the Blackout

Miles watched as Rachel picked at her threadbare gloves for the hundredth time in an hour, face scrunched in cold and irritation. She had joined them at the very onset of fall, leaves still green in the trees, but now November was waning and the imagined scent of Christmas spices hung in the air. More pressing, a chill had begun to settle in everyone's bones as they trudged south, home to Philadelphia. The gloves had been scrounged from the bottom of someone's pack, two sizes too big for her, and she wore a large, green officer's coat around her shoulders, the sleeves bunched at the elbows.

Marching through camp to stand beside her, he took her hands in his, yanking the gloves off and stuffing them in his pocket. Rachel started to protest but then he was cradling her bare hands in his and holding them to his face, hot breath warming her frigid skin.

She gaped at him for a moment before her shoulders sagged, the coat nearly slipping off. "Why are you doing this?" Her voice was tired and he felt her lean into him in spite of herself.

"Being nice? Just care too much to watch you freeze to death."

"Don't. Just let me hate you."

His lips brushed her palm, half-smiling at her familiar shiver. "That's the one thing I could never live with."

"But kidnapping, that's perfectly acceptable."

"Give me Ben. You can go back to your kids, safe and sound. Be home by New Year's."

"It's only been a few months and I'm already sick of this conversation." Rachel snatched her gloves from him and tugged them on. He tried without success for the rest of the trip not to think of her cold, bare hands on- well. Nobody ever called him a gentleman.

**Old Acquaintance Be Forgot**

Eleven Years After the Blackout

Christmas morning. Chicago. Miles sat with his feet up in front of a crackling fire in the Grand, a bottle of whiskey dangling from his hand as he stared at the hastily wrapped bag of precious coffee beans he'd carried with him for a year.

Bass' undelivered Christmas present had still been in his saddlebag, forgotten, when he tore out of Philadelphia and he hadn't discovered it until he was a hundred miles away, rooting around for a drop of alcohol. When he pulled out the little bag instead, the bow smashed, he'd _cried_. There was no one there to mock him, or hold him, so he had just fallen to his knees in the snow to mourn the death of everything he'd ever known, tears all but freezing on his cheeks.

Miles tipped the whiskey bottle back against his lips, eyes still glued to the wrapped package.

He could have opened it, sold the coffee for diamonds or gold or, hell, whiskey.

He could have thrown it in the fireplace, watched with satisfaction as it melted and burned.

Standing abruptly, Miles instead set the package carefully on the mantel: a tiny urn filled with the metaphorical ashes of his longest relationship. He snorted into his whiskey, the thought too pathetic even for his current status quo of drunk-off-his-ass sixteen-hours-a-day.

Christmas morning. Philadelphia. Bass stood in front of his own fireplace, one hand braced against the marble and a small package held in the other. Inside was a framed and faded photograph of them in the snow, dated Christmas 2002. Jeremy rapped his knuckles on the door, letting himself in. "Sir? They're ready for you."

Bass tossed the package in the fire before he could change his mind, not sticking around to watch as flames and embers swallowed it up.

**Hear Them Ring**

Sixteen Years After the Blackout

Miles stuffed his hands in his pockets, jacket buttoned up to his chin against the December chill. Ciudad Juarez was technically still Texas these days but the border wasn't far and Charlie had insisted on stopping for Christmas presents. He stood on the edge of the poinsettia-lined square, simultaneously scouring the crowd for Rangers or Patriots and watching Charlie and Rachel giggle uncharacteristically in the marketplace. Christmas magic, he supposed. Tomorrow they'd be back to glaring across the campfire.

The clock must have struck noon because high above their heads the cathedral bells began to toll and Miles clenched his fingers into a fist in his pocket, still unused to having full use of his hand again. Bass was standing not five feet away and yet- with those bells ringing, it was Willoughby all over again.

_Ring. Shackled and resigned, marched through a crowd of bloodthirsty townspeople. Ring. Needle in his arm. Ring. Bells ringing like it's goddamn Christmas Day._

Hehad been half-drowned in a bottle by then but it wasn't like it was hard to imagine. Executions of war criminals go down pretty much the same way, no matter when and where.

Miles blinked to find Bass closer than he'd expected.

"What's the matter with you?" he demanded.

"Nothin." Miles hung his head, feet shuffling in the grass. Spanish and English Christmas carols filtered from the gazebo as the last echo of the church bells faded.

Finally, he glanced up, squinting in the bright December sunlight. "Merry Christmas, Bass."

At first he thought he hadn't heard, blue eyes glued on Charlie and Rachel, bags of supplies and small gifts in their arms. But then Bass was looking at him and, for a moment, it could have been any Christmas since they were six years old. "Merry Christmas, Miles."

A/N:

Master title taken from "Green Christmas."

Chapter titles taken from "I'll Be Home for Christmas," "Silver and Gold," "Baby, It's Cold Outside," "Auld Lang Syne," and "Silver Bells."

Prompts: Baking, Tree, Gloves, Fireplace, Bells


End file.
